Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

Charles stood alone and drank. His mind kept coming back to Janine Bentley. Pretty girl. Long golden hair. Not an intelligent face, but a sweet one. Appealing, childish really. Where was she?

‘Look, I do want to talk about the series potential in this thing, Charles old man.’ It was Walter back again. Nigel Frisch and Alexander Harvey had only required him as a waiter for their drinks and had not volunteered to include him in their conversation. Charles’ mind was not on series potential. ‘Walter, you know that show at Hunstanton. .?’

‘Yes.’

‘You saw it a few times, I gather?’

‘Yes.’ Walter looked at him blankly.

‘Did you meet one of the dancers called Janine?’

The producer’s look changed from blankness to slight suspicion. ‘Yes, I met her.’

‘Apparently she was having an affair with Bill Peaky.’

‘Yes, or he was with her, whichever way you like to put it. So what? Do you disapprove?’

‘No, no. It’s just. . I don’t know, they’re supposed to have had a quarrel on the afternoon he died.’

‘Yes, somebody mentioned that. She was serious about him; he wasn’t about her. Apparently Janine had been in touch with Peaky’s wife and told her what was going on, imagining, I think, that the wife would give up her claims and allow the course of true love to run smooth.’

‘Really. And that’s what annoyed Peaky?’

‘I gather so. It’d annoy most men. I’d have been pretty damned annoyed if any of my little bits on the side had told Angela.’ Somehow the sexual bravado in his tone didn’t carry conviction.

‘Hmm. Do you know what Peaky’s relationship with his wife was?’

‘Well, they were married. Sorry, being facetious. I don’t know. I think OK, but Bill used to put it about a bit.’

‘So I heard. Incidentally, Walter, do you know Peaky’s wife — widow, I should say?’

‘I’ve met her. Carla. Pretty girl. Lives out towards Epping Forest somewhere. Wouldn’t say I know her really.’ Walter Proud drained his gin reflectively. ‘Pity about Bill Peaky. Really talented boy. I thought I’d get some kind of show going there. Still, it’s an ill wind. If I hadn’t gone to Hunstanton to see him, I wouldn’t have made contact with old Lennie Barber again and tonight wouldn’t have happened.’

Gerald Venables, who had been ensconced in a corner of the bar with the head of the television company’s contract department, offered to drive Charles home. ‘So where do you go now, big boy?’ he asked as the Mercedes purred along.

‘I reckon finding Janine is still the first priority.’

‘Cherchez la femme.’

‘But since the trail seems to have gone cold there at the moment, I think I might cherchez the family instead for a bit.’

‘Whose family?’

‘Peaky’s family. I think I’ll get in touch with his widow.’

COMIC: Do you know, I’m going to marry a widow?

FEED: Are you? Ooh, I wouldn’t fancy being the second husband of a widow.

COMIC: I’d sooner be the second than the first.

Charles rang the phone number Walter Proud had given him the next morning. He asked to speak to Mrs. Peaky and was told he was speaking to Mrs. Pratt, who was Bill Peaky’s widow. He should have realized that Peaky was too good a name for a comedian to be genuine.

He had decided that when he spoke to her, he would not attempt any subterfuge. Since she had not been in Hunstanton at the time, she could not possibly have been implicated in her husband’s death and she was likely to be interested to hear of any suspicious circumstances.

She spoke slowly, treading her accent with caution like a tight-rope walker, all right at her own pace, but at speed in danger of falling into the Cockney below. ‘What’s it about?’

‘You don’t know me, Mrs. Pratt, and I hope you don’t mind my calling you. My name’s Charles Paris. I was present in Hunstanton when your husband died.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you, but I’ve since heard things that make me wonder whether his death was in fact an accident.’

‘Whether it was. . What, you mean that someone might have. . that he might have been murdered?’

‘I believe it’s possible.’

There was a long pause from the other end of the phone. When it came back, her voice was strained, less at pains to hide its origins. ‘Do you have any suspicions as to who might have murdered him?’

‘Suspicions, vague thoughts, nothing concrete. I wanted to talk to you about it.’

‘Me? But I — ’

‘I’m sorry. Please don’t misunderstand me. Of course I’m not wishing to imply any suspicion of you. I just wanted to talk to you about your husband, ask if you know of anyone with a sufficiently strong grudge against him to. . I’m sorry, I thought you would be interested.’

‘Yes, of course I am. It’s just a bit of a shock. I mean, it never occurred to me that. . You’re convinced that it was murder?’

‘Fairly convinced, yes.’

‘As I say, it’s a shock.’

‘Of course. Can we meet?’

‘I think we should.’

‘Just say where and when.’

‘Do you mind coming out here? I’m sorry, it’s difficult to park the children at short notice. Can you come today?’

Charles’ professional calendar was as empty as usual. ‘Certainly. Tell me how to get to you.’

There was no evidence of the children when he arrived at the house. Presumably Carla Pratt had managed to park them at short notice after all.

The house was in Chigwell, a nice area for an East End boy like Bill Peaky to aspire to when he started to make a bit of money. No doubt all the neighbours were company directors, professional footballers and minor racketeers. The building was a bungalow that seemed to have sprawled out of control, with a double garage and hacienda-style arch-ways that had been added to take the curse off its thirties redbrick lines. The frontage was all wrought iron, black wrought iron gates relieving black wrought iron railings.

This motif was continued inside the sitting room where black wrought iron supported glass shelves, plant pots, light fittings, marble-topped tables and a series of photographs of Bill Peaky’s triumphs. The curled black metal gave the room a coldness, a newness, as if the decor were for show, not for living in.

Carla Pratt was also dressed in black, but she had a higher cuddlability rating than the wrought iron. Her curves were less machined and warmer. Charles had seen her distantly at the inquest, but never without a coat and so had not appreciated her splendid contours. He recalled Walter Proud saying she had been a dancer and child-bearing had not slackened the athleticism of her figure. Nor did the black glazed cotton dress, worn presumably as a token of mourning, do anything to disguise her shape. Indeed, it offered fascinating grounds for conjecture as to whether she was wearing one of those negligible bras made of flimsy stuff like they wrap supermarket chickens in, or none at all.

Her blonde hair had been recently (and expensively) cut and she looked fit and lively. If she was suffering from the pains of widowhood, she disguised it well.

Having sat Charles down and provided him with a cup of coffee (instant, but one of the more expensive blends), she asked him to give his grounds for suspicion and he ran through the business of Norman del Rosa’s revelation again.

‘That doesn’t prove murder,’ she said with what sounded like relief. Presumably someone who has just reconciled herself to her husband’s death is not anxious to have to change her whole pattern of thinking on the subject.

‘Doesn’t prove it, but it does make the death seem rather odd. The particular electrical set-up which caused it would have been bound to show up on the ringmain tester.’